Always Double Down on Eleven!

First off, big ups to BMcD, Esq. and his kick-ass Free Mumia BBQ last weekend. The air smelled richly of Boca burgers, arrogance, and a hint of axewound as we stood around drinking all the beer.

I remember one surreal moment during the night as I listened to Flava Tribe bump over B’s system, looking over to the left and seeing none other than Wyles Mallo tossing his existential cookies in some low lying shrubbery. After a 1-Tuff-Dictionary-Approved Pinner, the crew was rejuvenated and ready for a night on the town. Sad that the Sports Dude couldn’t make it, but luckily Bill Simmons flew in from LA with the Sports Gal in tow to talk about the state of Beantown athletics with AMcIss, and B and CmcD.

Maybe none of you have noticed, but the Mundane Adventures column has been on a brief hiatus for the past week, as I took my well deserved yearly vacation and traveled to Vegas and the left coast for some well deserved R&R…that’s rock and roll baby (that line might be gayer than David Hasselhoff and William Hung’s illegitimate love child)! Well, I’m back now… tanner, poorer, and by the grace of God, still disease free.

Now, giving me 1000 words to talk about a week away from the hell that is the 9 to 5 is a bit ridiculous. It’s like asking Mama Cass to not eat ham sandwiches, or hoping Bill Walton doesn’t spout out a “where is Bobby Jackson?”, or asking Ben Affleck to make a good movie again. It just can’t be done. So in the hopes of keeping this short, I am offering you only a few choice vignettes from the trip, and will avoid reverting to the running diary I kept while away (Tuesday, 5:43 p.m.: I quickly lose 100 dollars at a black jack table. 6:09 p.m.: I stare intently at blonde chick’s huge tits. 6:10 p.m.: Blonde with huge tits angrily asks why I’m staring at her and writing something in a marble notebook.).

My first night in Vegas was also the most memorable of my trip – for the obvious reason that it involved women. I was there with my friend Goodtimes, and a bunch of girls I went to college with as well (insert any number of cockblock jokes here). The girls took it upon themselves to plan that first night, and I tell you this now, two retards and Jessica Simpson might have executed the plan better. They managed to pick the one place (Ra, inside the Luxor) that was a complete anomaly of the typical Vegas club populace.

Let me explain: The west coast in general, Vegas in particular, is inhabited by the hottest, fakest, most unintelligent women one can imagine. This leads to a great time on most nights. New York may be the land of nose jobs, but Vegas and LA are the land of beautiful, bouncing, fake boobs. Which would you rather have? I’ve thought about this a lot since I’ve been back, and I honestly believe that any girl sporting less than a large B-cup should be mandated by the government to get “breast investments.” More fake boobs would shoot women’s collective self-esteem through the roof. Raging feminists (I’m not talking your run of the mill, pro-abortion, I-want-to-work-after-I-have-kids-woman. I’m talking non-shaving womynists) and other weird fringe characters would slowly fade into oblivion. Most importantly, more amazingly hot women means more for guys to swoon over and spend money on, thus making them work harder to buy more. Bam! No more national debt. I could write a whole column on this, and I probably will.

Anyway, Ra had none of this. Blacks, Hispanics, AWODWOA (Asians who only dance with other Asians) and no fake boobs. Maybe it’s a law that you must be blonde to get fakies. I’ll have to research that for the next column. Goodtimes and I stood around for a few minutes and got a few complimentary dirty looks. We did the ritual “beginning of the night walk through the dance area with a drink in your hand to check out the crowd while trying not to spill on anyone,” and received even more dirty looks. We decided to leave. We headed over to Rum Jungle, right next door at Mandalay Bay, and once again, everything was right in the world.

Waiting outside of Rum Jungle, we saw the fat kid walking by from Old School. I of course didn’t know his name, so I screamed out “Old School! OLD SCHOOL!” in my drunken state. Looking back, I should have screamed “Shonte Jr.! Shonte Jr.!” but oh well. Goodtimes and I proceeded to argue for the next 20 minutes about whether the girl Old School was with was fat or not. For the record, she was. Goodtimes just thought she was thin because anyone standing next to that orca of a kid looks like the offspring of Kate Moss and Manute Bol.

When the arguing finally subsided, we were at the front of the line. We walked in, paid our 20 bucks (Vegas is the only place where a cover is acceptable) and saw a bar two stories high! Girls wearing go-go outfits dancing in cages! Fake boobs everywhere! We proceeded to smile a lot, and get hammered. The night moved quickly, and wobbly I might add, but maybe an hour or two, a fine blonde co-ed grabs Goodtimes and pulls him away. I wouldn't see him for the next hour. What I do find in his wake are the girl’s two friends. One blonde and one brunette. I start talking to them, and we're buying drinks and dancing and all that. Intermittently, the two girls lean in make out with each other. Yes, you read that correctly.

Is there nothing sweeter than two women making out in front of you? This has happened in front of me a few times in my life, and each moment is fondly and vividly remembered (and often a beginning sequence of thought in my prescribed daily "alone time"). After one serious bout of femme ala femme lip-locking, I pulled out a line which basically amounted to, "I don't think you'd want to kiss me, I'm probably not as good as your friend." The brunette moves in, and it’s on - my God, that line actually worked.

So there's a lot more dancing, and drinking, and smooching all around. As the club is beginning to close, the girls mention that they have a suite upstairs and we should come up for more drinks. When moments like these happen you don't so much think about how awesome everything is going, you wonder if you're stepping into a trap. Are there five armed thugs upstairs ready to mug us? Do they want us to pay for the suite? Does one of these chicks have a dick? And if so, is it bigger than mine?

Well, I get over my bout of caution and decide that yes, we would like to go up to their suite. I find Goodtimes and his lady (who also has fake boobs) and we begin the walk up to the suite, but not before I notice that his girl has a huge diamond ring on her finger. The two of them walk ahead, and the following conversation ensues.

Me: So...is your friend like engaged or something?

Blonde: No.

Me: Oh, Ok, I just thou....

Brunette: She's married.

Me: Oh wow. Are you all married?

Blonde: I am

Brunette: I'm not (So we're sticking with brown hair tonight)

Now I know at this point that there's no way I'm blowing up Goodtimes' spot, so I don't have to worry about what I say.

Me: Call, me traditional, but I kind of figure that when I'm married, my wife won't go on weekend excursions with her friends and hook up with random guys.

Blonde: That's why you'd better treat your wife like gold sweetie, or this type of thing is bound to happen.

Lesson learned. Needless to say the rest of the night was a lot of fun. Goodtimes got the bedroom, the other married girl got the living room - and I had a bruised back for the next two days from being shoved against the porcelain backing of a toilet for the next two hours. Bathrooms are awesome!

Oh, Have I mentioned yet that we stayed at the Hard Rock Hotel? Have I mentioned that Stern broadcast there the week before I arrived, and Carson Daly's show was there the week after I left? Did I go over the pool scene, and the swim up bars and black jack tables? How it's the absolute Mecca of fake breasts? How on Sundays the pool hosts a party called Rehab, where everyone gets crazy around the pool and the highlight is a bikini contest on a platform in the middle of the pool? And on the Sunday I was there, the celebrity judges were porn stars? That's right, the celebrity judges were Krystal Steale, Janine, and...Jenna Jameson.

Let me put this into context. Puberty may not have happened if it weren't for these girls, or at the very least, it wouldn't have been any fun. The first porn I ever bought was a Janine flick. I remember picking out "The Coven" in its oversized box at Tower Records and sheepishly walking over to the register, hoping they wouldn't ask me for ID - considering I was three years away from having any. Krystal Steale has the face of Christina Aguilera, and is even more of a slut. And Jenna, well, even the ladies reading this column know who Jenna Jameson is.

I stood next to her, I took pictures. I literally bumped into her and her pierced, porn star husband later on in the day as I got out of the elevator. Here is a woman who has had more cock in her than Lil' Kim and the cast of Queer Eye combined, and my penis was in a two foot radius of her. It's like we had sex by osmosis.

Although we went out and had another great night on Sunday, I think the bikini contest and porn stars were the highlight of that day. Some black stripper ended up winning the contest in a heated battle with a young white girl with cans the likes of which I have never seen. In the end, the black chick pulled out the victory using the old "get down on all fours and rhythmically flex your butt cheeks move."

Girl Next to Me: Holy shit, she's flexing her ass! She's gotta be a stripper.

Me: Actually, I have a lot of friends that can do that. Teachers, secretaries - it just takes a lot of drive, determination, and most importantly, heart.

So my friends, as you see, Vegas is a town like no other, and what happens there, stays there. Unless you write a column for all your friends to read.

To be continued...

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